


From Eden.

by afogocado



Series: Triad [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, fem!reader - Freeform, unprotected oral sex, unprotected piv sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: Din Djarin, a rugged mechanic, moved into town last summer with his trouble-making little boy, Bean. Obi-Wan Kenobi, the town's preschool teacher, is loved by all. And you own the only local bookstore.It only takes one night for your body to learn everything about two men who seem so different, yet alike. Din Djarin may be somebody else’s father, but he becomes your Daddy; and Obi-Wan Kenobi may educate many younglings, but you become his Little One.In which we trace Reader’s relationship with her town’s dear mechanic and dear preschool teacher, until their relationships are consummated separately and together.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/The Mandalorian/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Series: Triad [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858459
Comments: 29
Kudos: 190





	From Eden.

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Filth! Explicit! 18+! Mature!
> 
> Warning: This is the most sexually explicit thing I’ve ever written in my 20 years of writing. Unprotected PIV sex; unprotected oral sex; oral sex: male giving and receiving, female giving and receiving; m/m sexual action, m/f sexual action, m/m/f sexual action. 
> 
> NOTE: This is over 11,000 words long. Please excuse typos. 
> 
> Title borrowed from Hozier's song.

*~*

  1. _The Introductions._



1

Din Djarin had come from some place else, he told you, and you felt terrible over the flushed feeling of instant eroticism that roiled through you over his newness. It’d been a long time since someone from away had come through to visit, let alone move here permanently. He told you he’d moved up here for work, something to do with his hands—mechanics—and your eyes immediately turned to his hands resting, palms down on the checkout counter’s flat top. Yes, he certainly looked like he knew how to use them. Sun-worn, and not care worn. Obviously aged: grown man’s hands, you think, and feel yourself flush even harder. You’re knocked out of these thoughts when one of them moves away, and pushes through his dark, messy curls that have fallen over his forehead. You watch his locks move back, and your gaze traces the lines around his eyes that are smiling at you, just the same as his mouth, but are fogged with some kind of studious wonder.

“The movers are carrying everything in for us,” he told you, a blush creeping over his tanned features. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair again and your stomach absolutely aches over how bright his big, brown eyes shine at you.

‘Us’ included the small boy with him of similar complexion and hair, but near-startling beautiful green eyes—they shine, too, but with a wild kind of curiosity as his small, chubby hands moved to grab at the accoutrements lining your check-out counter. It was rare that children be so delighted in your small and rickety bookstore. The only ones close to this little one’s age that you were used to seeing all bright-eyed and excited were the small preschoolers that Mr. Kenobi brought in from time to time for field trip story-time.

“We had to get out of the house,” the stranger huffs and you smile like you understand. “I hate cutting out of work. But Bean was getting restless.”

“Alice,” the little boy says, grabbing one of the literary snow globes that line the lower shelves at the front of the counter where you’re perched on a stool.

“I was thinking of taking him for lunch, and got lost down here,” the stranger waves vaguely behind himself, towards the front door of your bookshop, gesturing towards the small downtown area of the quaint, little town. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Papa, Alice and Rabbit are stuck inside,” Bean says, a little too loudly, and brandishing the snow globe up at his father, the flakes swirling around the glass encasing with an impressive speed.

“I see that, Buddy.” He says, smiling down at the boy, resting his palm on his thick locks of dark hair. “I’m Din,” he says, offering you his free hand. Oh, God. It’s rough and warm, and firm, and you feel an inappropriate heat just building and threatening to spread. You squeeze your thighs together on the stool and try to give him a normal looking face, and tell him your name while shaking his hand. It lingers, his thumb brushing against the back of yours, and you wonder if your jaw will be able to work to speak.

You tell him the name of one of the places you frequent for lunch, and his crooked smile makes you squeeze your legs tighter. And when he says, “Thanks, honey,” in a gruff and rustic voice, letters slipping from somewhere lower in his chest, hummed out in a hungry intonation, and you know you’ll need to take an early lunch break yourself. At home. And in bed.

“Papa, ask Honey about school,” Bean says, tugging at his father’s worn jeans.

Din finally removes his hand from yours, and stuffs both of his in the front pockets of his jeans. You watch, noting how his thin grey t-shirt is and how it clings to his chest and falls loose around his middle, and how it’s too short, and if he were to stretch in any slight direction, it could ride up and—

“I forgot! Thanks, son. Yeah, do you know of any preschools in session for the summer? This one needs somewhere to be while I start this new job.”

You want to roll your eyes to the back of your head, thinking of the only schoolteacher you know on a semi-regular basis: a sweet and gentle man who everyone in town adored (and the mothers of his pupils wanted to bed, regardless of marital status all around).

“Yes. Mr. Kenobi has summer sessions,” you tell Din the name of the school, and describe what Mr. Kenobi is like, leaving out how his shoulder-length golden-red hair sometimes looks auburn and how he can never seem to stop tucking it behind his ears, and how he always seemed to dress just right in his button downs with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his sweater vests, and blue jeans that clutched around his thighs precariously, to where you’ve sometimes seen the outline of his—

“He sounds like the kind of educator Bean needs in his life.”

2

The first time you met Mr. Kenobi, he’d also stumbled into your bookstore like Din when he too was new in town. He’d told you that he was starting his teaching career with what he called “younglings”, over at the school closest by. His aquamarine eyes burned with an intense anxiety, and he told you that he didn’t have much funding from the school, but wanted to invest in as many diverse books as possible for the children. He wanted them to learn about different people and places as early on as possible.

“I’d googled the other bookstores, and I found that yours is the only local one. I thought it would be nice to support a local business,” his voice was calm and almost melodic the way it coiled around consonants, and the way the vowels vibrated from his chest.

You helped him select a stack of books, noting where he dug into his own cash when the school’s ran out, and offered to buy some of the books for him, “As a welcome to town gift,” you told him, and he was obviously delighted. “And it would be nice to support our local Mr. Kenobi.”

He watched you stack the books, tucking bookmarks behind each cover before bagging them, while he tucked his hair behind his ears and his eyes burned a different kind of intensity upon hearing you call him by his title. His hand reached out towards you, and you counted the freckles on the back of it, and his long finger tapped at a handmade sign near your wrist. You know he noticed your own hands shake as you struggled to bag the last books.

“You do story time?” His fingers brush over his stubble, also golden-red, and you swallow hard under his searching gaze, staring at his first two fingers roving over and over again at his upper lip, before they move to trace one of his eyebrows.

“I do.” And the steadiness that comes from your own voice is something quite unbelievable. “It gets incredibly boring when nobody comes in. Sometimes, I’ll have visitors. I like reading for the small children. Do silly voices for characters.”

He’s smiling now, grinning in a way that shows all of his teeth, and you grip at the paper bag, hoping that your sweaty hand doesn’t stain the brown coloring a darker shade from the dampness of your palm.

“I’d really like to take the younglings out on fieldtrips. It pains me to keep them in one classroom all summer. Would you mind terribly if I brought them along sometimes?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all. You should bring their parents, too; I could really do it up for them, so they ask their parents to come back and spend money in my store.”

This delights him. You know, because almost all of his teeth are showing again. And he takes one of the plain paper bookmarks, and a pen in a cup, and scribbles out a note before sliding it to you. “This is my direct line. Text me your number, and I’ll be sure to call ahead any time I’m thinking about bringing them in.”

You watch him hold the bags of books in both arms, noting his sleeves rolled up, and the hair at the back of his forearms, with more freckles, and when he’s gone, you take an early lunch at home. In bed.

3

Din Djarin is very cautious about his son. And the more he gets to know you, the more comfortable he is asking if you wouldn’t mind watching over Bean after preschool is over so that Bean doesn’t have to wait around in the dangerous garage that Din works in. Once all of the other children are picked up by their parents or guardians in the early afternoon from Mr. Kenobi’s class, Mr. Kenobi will bring Bean to you and you’ll read to him or let him draw all over the back of bookmarks with crayons. Sometimes Mr. Kenobi will stay so you can get some work done, and you’ll watch the preschool teacher sit on the floor with one of his legs folded into his chest, and let Bean chatter at him until Din shows up near closing hours.

And Din will watch you hoist Bean up from the floor and carry him to his father. And Din’s gut will ache with a sharp pain to see someone so carefully handle his son, because she wants to. And Mr. Kenobi will ache with a different pain over the way you and Din look at one another during these exchanges, and ache over the way he and his son both call you ‘honey’ fondly.

This is the way, Din tells you.

Mr. Kenobi will straighten his cardigan with a stiff upper lip, and tell you goodbye shortly after they leave, his fingers only ghosting at the back of your bicep on his way out while he shoulders his messenger bag.

*~*

  1. _The Dates._



1

And that is the way it goes. You, Din, and Mr. Kenobi split up child care duties for Bean, and Bean couldn’t be more delighted to have so much attention from so many adults who actually cared to hear what he had to babble about. Din has you and Mr. Kenobi over for dinner sometimes, and sometimes the three of you go out to dinner with Bean. You always make sure that the restaurant has chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.

And you go out with the men separately.

It starts with Mr. Kenobi.

He comes into your bookstore early one morning before school starts, and buys a book about birding.

And when you give the cover a cursory glance while ringing it up, you ask, “For the children?”

He just shakes his head, that nervous anxiety shining bright again, “I’m afraid not. This is for our Saturday afternoon together.”

Your stomach drops, and when you press the book into his hands, his fingers graze over yours and he adds, “If you’ll have me?”

So, Saturday comes. And he takes you walking through these trails, always behind you and looking over your shoulder at the book open in your hands, and squinting and pointing at trees, naming the birds. When you trip over a gnarled, exposed tree root, he catches you around the waist with both hands to steady you. He bends to grab the book you’ve dropped, and when he presses it into your hands, he tucks his hair behind his ear and asks softly, “Are you all right?”

On the car ride back to your house, you think about the date—how many questions he asked you. How he was always so interested to learn more about you; you are always impressed with how much he remembers. And you think about how, during the hiking around and birding, how undone you became by how close he would stand and linger, without having to touch you at all.

When he parks on your street, he kills the engine and looks at you. “I can walk you to your door, it’s getting dark.” The sun was setting.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to, if you want me to.” And the way the setting sun glares into his car, makes his hair look flaming, the orange and red and yellow light making his stubble more pronounced. You don’t trust your hands; you clutch at your hoodie strings—you look silly—and it makes him smile.

“Okay,” you say with a numb mouth, and you let yourself out of his car because if you waited for him to come over and open the door like the gentleman he clearly is, you’re sure you would attack his face with your face, and claw at his clothes like an insane person. And all of the neighbors would see, and you would die of embarrassment for attacking the local preschool teacher in a feral fury.

He waits for you to climb out instead, and shuts the car door behind you. And he walks behind you, palm ghosting the small of your back, leading you to your front door. You struggle with your keys once you’re both on your stoop, trying to find the right one, and your hands are damp again.

“I had a lovely time with you,” he says in that quiet way of his, stuffing his hands deep into the front pockets of his dark wash jeans.

You shake your housekey free and jam it into the door, exhale, and turn around to face him. You want to invite him in. You know he won’t agree to it.

“It was really nice to spend time with you, Obi-Wan. Just us, I mean,” you say.

And he just looks at you, and stands a bit closer.

“I’d like to see you again,” you tell him, gripping onto your hoodie strings again.

His eyes trace over your fingers curled tight over the strings, and up your face to your eyes, and says, like he didn’t hear anything _you_ just said, “May I kiss you?”

Your lips part slightly, in surprise. Of _course_ he could kiss you—it’s one of the few things you’ve wanted for far too long. But now that he’s asking (and you don’t know why you’re surprised that he would ask like that), you don’t know if you can go through with it.

You nod dumbly and manage a quiet, “Yes, please.”

And this tickles him because he smiles, a crooked thing, and he grabs the eyelet of one of your hoodie strings between his thumb and forefinger, and his other hand traces his fingertips over your other fist, willing your grip to loosen, and your fingers curl over his first two fingers instead. No longer caring if your hand is sweaty or not (it is), and no longer caring if he cares about it(oh, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest). He tugs you forward by the string in between his fingers, and presses his nose into the crook of yours before darting his tongue over his dry lips, and then presses them into yours before either of you can back out. Its gentle and soft, like his voice, and your breath hitches when your heart stutters in your chest as it tries to determine if it wants to jolt up your throat or sink to your stomach. Obi-Wan kisses you more firmly, and works your hand open that’s gripping his to press your palms together and interlock your fingers, and when you sigh into his mouth, his grip over and through your hand tightens and he drops your hoodie string with his other one to wrap his arm around your waist to pull you closer, and pulls your joined hands to his chest.

He breaks the kiss and nuzzles his nose against yours. “I need to go.”

Yeah. You do, too. A lot.

It’s hard to pull away, but you do, and that smile. Those bright eyes. The beauty mark under the right one. “Goodnight, Mr. Kenobi.”

He grabs at your hoodie string one last time, “Goodnight, little one.”

2

And you go out with the men separately.

It follows with Din.

One night, you’re holding late hours at the bookstore waiting for Din to come pick Bean up. Bean is curled up on one of the beanbag chairs in the small reading nook that the children gather around when they visit. He’s holding the Alice snow globe to his chest, and drooling slightly over the chair’s material—you’ll clean that up after he leaves.

Din manages to scoop his son up, still sleeping, in his arms, and pries the snow globe out of his slack grip and sits it upon your check out counter while you come out from behind it to walk him to the door.

“He was good tonight,” you tell him, wrapping your cardigan over yourself a bit tighter. Something about seeing Din come in, shining with layers of grease and oil, and his white t-shirt absolutely ruined with muck, makes you weak. When he shifts Bean in his arms, his shirt tugs up and you catch a glimpse of his middle: firm, but also soft; dark hairs scattered haphazardly; tan like his face and arms. He runs his palm flat against his skin there, looking at you intently, before straightening his shirt and pulling it back down.

“He’s always good for you.” Din’s gruff voice makes your arms breakout in goosebumps when he speaks this softly, and you’re glad that they’re covered by your long sleeves. Din doesn’t miss how the cardigan is just a little too big for you, and recognizes it as Mr. Kenobi’s right away, and feels a slight pang in his chest that he wills away with a clearing of his throat. A throat that is covered in day-old stubble. You see some silver hairs mixed in with it at his cheeks.

“Listen,” he says, shifting his weight to one leg. “I got a sitter for Friday night. I want to take you out.”

Your stomach drops past your knees. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“It’s going to be fucking blazing that day. I thought we could do something cool. Like, literally. I saw there’s an ice rink in town.”

Oh. Oh, no.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” is all you can manage again.

So, Friday comes. And he scoops you up on his motorcycle that humid evening, telling you that you better hold on to him, and that you better wear your helmet the whole time, even though he’s not wearing one. He’s letting you wear his. And when he’s not happy with how loosely you’re holding him around his middle, his gloved hands roughly grab your wrists and he draws your embrace tighter around him.

And you get to the rink. And he helps you tie into your skates. And of course he’s so good on the ice. Standing there like he’s standing on solid ground, arms crossed over his thin navy t-shirt, the bottom of it riding up so slightly over his dark gray jeans that cling everywhere, smirking at you as you wobble on weak ankles and weak knees to the rink’s lip to join him where he stands. And you toe the ice, easing yourself on it, embarrassing yourself to near-death over your instant pinwheeling arms, and he lurches before you stumble, and his strong arm around your waist keeps you steady and still against his torso. He is soft, and firm.

On the ride back to your house, you think about the date—how he had to take you two entire laps around the rink before you were confident enough and comfortable enough to stand on your own. You think about your slip and near fall, and how grabbed at his shirt before that could happen, and how hard he grabbed your upper arms (and how exciting it felt to have him grab you to the point of pain) to pull you up and against him. How your weight pushed his back into the rink’s wall, and how his arm around the small of your back pulled you into his front and how he just sort of pouted at you and cooed, “Oh, Honey. You need to be more careful with slick surfaces.”

And the harsh, fluorescent lights burning down from above illuminate the almost wolfish glee etched into his eyes, pupils blown wide. And the light illuminates just how dark his hair is, and just how noticeable the rogue silver strands are, and how patch his facial hair is, apart from his dark moustache. And when he bites his lower lip with his even teeth, you want his canine to bite into you somewhere. Anywhere.

With Din, you _do_ invite him inside for a drink. Because you know he won’t turn you down. And because you know he picked this date with the sole purpose of being able to touch you. And that sneakiness excited you all evening.

When you’re both inside, he immediately pushes you against your locked front door and spreads your legs with his knee. He presses his hips into you, grabbing at your thigh and pulling it up and against his waist, his hard cock straining and screaming behind his taut denim, just as his biceps are rigid against his tight t-shirt sleeves. He pushes your shirt up and his shirt up, and presses his bare stomach against yours and you let him lick into your mouth, immediately overstimulated by the close and forward touches. When you moan into his mouth, his hips dig into you, and he pulls your leg tighter into him his fingers bruising, and his other fingers bruise your bare hip where his hand continues sneaking up your shirt that threatens to fall down. Only when he’s left your lips swollen and you panting, his moves to your neck, his tongue licking a slow and maddening line with the flat of it up to your ear before kissing you there, his hot breath making your nipples pearl against the fabric of your bra that feels too coarse now and you want to rip your shirt and it off.

Din growls against where he’s just bitten your neck, “You better send me home now if you don’t want it yet; I won’t be able to stop.”

You tug at his hair, soft and damp from the humidity outside, and rake your nails over the nape of his neck, and he presses himself into you more firmly. “I want you,” you pant out. “But I’m not ready.”

His nose presses a soft trail down your neck where his tongue was, and he kisses you softly where your neck and shoulder meet and you feel him nod against you. He huffs out, “I’m always ready for you, baby.” He pulls back at looks at you, grabbing your chin, tracing your lower lip with the padding of his thumb before pressing it into your mouth and when you take it, brushing the tip of your tongue against it and suckling at it slightly, he arches an eyebrow and looks at you sternly, “ You tell Daddy when you’re ready, okay?”

You only nod against his hold on you, and he kisses your forehead before withdrawing from your mouth. He straightens up your shirt, pulling it back down and says, “Goodnight, baby,” before leaving.

*~*

  * _The Troublemaker_



1

“I need you to watch this one for me,” Mr. Kenobi says with a slight scowl when he arrives in front of your counter one Friday after school. “I’m afraid I’ve had to make an emergency appointment with the barber.”

“What?” It was simply the strangest thing he’d ever said to you. You watch Bean let go of his teacher’s hand and all but fly to the shelves at his eye level.

Mr. Kenobi reaches into his cross-body satchel (that you always found incredibly sexy with the way he takes it everywhere and felt incredibly silly for thinking so). He pulls out a small sandwich baggie filled with amber colored hair.

You squint at what he’s showing you, and your bewilderment must be apparent because he answers,

“It’s mine.” As though that explains everything. He sighs and runs his fingers through his locks to show you where it came from off the side. You cover your mouth with a hand and work to not laugh, but he frowns at the way your shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kenobi,” you say, trying to wipe your smile off your lips with your fingertips.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a shy smile—he’s all but begged you to call him Obi-Wan at this point, especially after going on dates with him and kissing him, but he can tell that you know calling him by his title excites him in a way.

Mr. Kenobi rolls his eyes at your quirked mouth as you try to compose yourself and become more serious, and his gaze flits over to Bean, who is enamored by a snow globe on one of the counter’s lower shelves.

“Alice,” Bean says with wide eyes, examining the small blonde girl and white rabbit trapped in the glass orb. “Mr. Nobi, why is Alice stuck in here if she lives in a book?”

Mr. Kenobi’s hand falls to the top of Bean’s head and gives him an affectionate rustle. “I don’t know, pal. Maybe she likes to get out of the paper from time to time.”

Mr. Kenobi shakes his head at you.

You’ve finally settled. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Kenobi.”

“It’s quite all right,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ears the best he can. “It’s just hair.” But your stomach flips because he has such beautiful hair, and you’re moved by a temporary bout of madness to blurt out ‘just don’t shave it off,’ but you don’t.

“His behavior is jarring sometimes. We were having crafts, and I was working with another student, and he just walked up to me and cut off my hair!” His fingers go into his beard that has grown out with more beautiful reds and blondes and grays. “Din’s come in for more parent-teacher conferences than any other parent or guardian. I don’t doubt he’s a great father.”

“Papa tells me to behave,” Bean says from Mr. Kenobi’s side. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nobi.”

“It’s okay, Bean,” Mr. Kenobi says, but is still thoughtfully stroking at his beard. “I think he’s just very curious. Anyway, are still on for eight tonight? With Din?”

“Yes.”

He checks his wristwatch, “I’m going to be late.”

“Go, I’ve got him.”

He nods and gives Bean one more ruffle on his hair, and moves to leave, and says from the door, “Don’t worry, I won’t get it shorn off.”

2

You go out with them separately, and you go out with them together—sometimes with Bean and sometimes without Bean. Like tonight. It was Din who asked the two of you out for drinks; he needed help with Bean, that was clear.

Din’s gotten the sitter he usually gets when the three of you, or you, and Din go out. You’re at the bar you usually frequent when the three of you can be together. Din always orders a pitcher of beer of your choosing, and different appetizers to share under the hazy lightbulbs that flicker and threatening to shut off entirely. It’s a real dive, and you all love it. While you waited for the food to arrive, you took turns pouring beer out for each other in your pint glasses, and discussed ways that you could better-support Bean and discourage future acting out.

“I don’t know, Obi,” Din says with a roguish grin. “I think he did you a favor; your hair looks great.” He reaches across the table and runs his fingers through the fringe, pushing it back over Obi-Wan’s forehead. Obi-Wan grabs Din’s wrist and makes like he’s going to bite his finger before Din laughs and jerks his hand away, almost knocking his glass over.

Obi-Wan’s fingers can’t leave his new hair cut alone. And Din is right—it does look great short and with layers like this. He pushes it back almost compulsively, and as his laughing tapers off, he settles back into his seat, and when he does, his knee presses tentatively into yours. And when you don’t pull away, he presses into you more until his foot snakes over to the other side of your ankle to spread your leg closer to him and he rests his hand at the inside of your bare knee, his fingertips running soft circles over your skin.

You swallow hard and listen to Din talk about how he’d like for there to be more structure with the way Bean is looked after. That if he knew exactly where he would be at certain times of every day, that rigidity would instill more discipline into him, but he needed your help and Obi-Wan’s help. You both agreed, of course.

When the food comes, you’re all almost three beers in, and another pitcher has been delivered. You feel particularly tipsy after drinking on an empty stomach, and when you grab a cheese fry in a hungered haste, some of the cheese drops at the corner of your mouth. But before you can grab a napkin to wipe it off, Din is catching it with his thumb and looks directly into your eyes as he licks his finger clean. The two men look at one another, and then at you. And you don’t know if it’s the beer, or Din doing something so feral like that, or if it’s Obi-Wan’s roaming fingers, but you flush with such an intensity as your head is filled with images of having them both. The mystery of both of their bodies is still thrumming through you on a daily basis—you’ve yet to sleep with either. The most that’s happened after your few dates with either were good night kisses. But now, you think of a first time with both of them, together. How Obi-Wan could stand behind you, with his arms wrapped around your middle, holding you steady against his chest while Din stands in front of you, gripping your chin, his thumb in your mouth, and his other fingers toying at your soaked folds. It’s too much.

You brush Obi-Wan’s hand off your knee, and jolt up, saying that you need to use the restroom, the loud and muffled classic rock beating loudly into your head from the speakers in the ceiling, and you almost knock your glass over in the process. Din stills it with his strong hand and raises an eyebrow at Obi-Wan, who shrugs, but watches you leave just the same.

You splash your face with cold water in the bathroom and dab it dry, and keep the paper towel gripped in your fist when you come out and slowly walk to the table, hanging off to the side and out of their vision so you can listen to them.

“I didn’t know she was seeing you,” Din says, sloshing his beer around in his glass.

Obi-Wan is picking at one of the cardboard coasters, peeling the labeling off. “She never said we were exclusive.”

“She never told me we were exclusive, either.”

“Do you want me to back off?” Obi-Wan stops peeling and looks up at Din.

Din chuckles, “Hell, no! We’re all adults…unless you want me to back off?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says quickly, dropping the coaster and covering the back Din’s hand with his in reassurance, but his hold lasts longer than it should.

“Are you going to keep seeing her? Because I want to.”

“I want to. If she wants to.”

Din’s finger traces the length of his moustache before he drains the rest of his beer. He watches Obi-Wan fill his glass for him again. “You’re a very sweet man.”

Obi-Wan smiles, blushes really. “Thank you.”

“Do you think she likes sweet? Or prefers it?”

Obi-Wan signs and wipes his hand off on his jeans. “I don’t know. I think she likes how take-charge you are. I see how excited she gets when you become forward. Even with ordering the drinks tonight.”

“She lets you touch her under tables.” Din says matter-of-factly, and grins at Obi-Wan sputtering into his pint glass. “It’s okay, Obi. I like watching it when you think I don’t know what you’re doing. Our Mr. Kenobi is a gentleman; it’s adorable.”

Obi-Wan is still blushing and when he drains his glass, he wipes at the back of his hand. “I like your roughness. But I bet you’re softer than you pretend to not be. I’d like to see that sometime.”

Din looks at him thoughtfully, like he’s calculating something. “I’m looking forward to seeing how all this plays out.”

You’ve listened long enough, and are in an even more aroused state than you were before going to the restroom, so you force yourself to join them at the table and try not to blush like Obi-Wan when Din says, “There’s our girl.”

*~*

  1. _The Interruptions_



1

Bean has stolen the Alice snow globe, and Din has discovered it and is bringing it (and Bean, to apologize) to your house, and he finds that you are entertaining Mr. Kenobi this evening. You’re both in your living room and Din watches from outside how Obi-Wan romances you, taking you into his arms and slowly rocking or swaying you against his body (to music that Din can’t hear). Mr. Kenobi is slowly working your cardigan off while you unbutton his shirt until it’s hanging open and you’re pressing your face into his warm, bare chest. Your nose brushes against the thatch of golden red hairs there, and he cradles the back of your head into him, his other hand creeping up your shirt until his palm is flat against the small of your back.

This is when Din knocks on your front door, loudly, and perhaps too aggressively. You and Obi-Wan just pull apart from one another as though shocked, and you go to answer the door, and Obi-Wan shows up behind you, buttoning his shirt from the bottom up, frowning with a line between his brow.

“Hey, Din,” you flush immediately. “Sorry, we were—”

“I found this in Bean’s room,” he says simply, frowning, and offering you the snow globe that his son has coveted for months. You don’t know why you just haven’t simply given it to him yet.

“Oh, that’s okay,” you say, not taking it from him. “He plays with it so much, he probably thinks it’s his.”

But Din is persistent. “No, we agreed to step our game up. With the behavior.” His hand falls softly onto Bean’s hair after you take the snow globe from him. “Son?”

“I’m sorry for taking Alice, Honey. I won’t do it again.”

Obi-Wan coaxes the snow globe from your hand and sits it on the shelving behind your front door, and finishes buttoning up his shirt.

“Thank you, Bean. I appreciate your honesty.” You brush some of his curls from his forehead and he just smiles up at you with his bright green eyes.

“Sorry we interrupted,” Din says gruffly, gearing to leave.

“It’s fine,” Obi-Wan says, his hand ghosting the small of your back.

“It’s really okay, Din,” you agree.

“Mr. Nobi,” Bean interrupts loudly. “Do you like Honey as much as Papa does?”

“That’s enough,” Din says, steering Bean away from your front door. “Tell them goodnight.”

“ _Goodnight!_ ”

2

Din texts you one Monday morning, and tells you that he’s just dropped Bean off at school and is settling into work and that he forgot to swing through the drive thru of a coffeeshop. He wonders if you could bring him an Americano and says he can pay you back. You tell him his money is no good and to see his grumpy face at eight in the morning will be payment enough. When you arrive, he calls you a life saver and then promptly sings out every curse word he knows after burning his tongue on the hot drink. He sits it down on the hood of the car that he’s finishing something up on.

When he calms, he tells you that—so far as he knows—Bean’s behavior has been much improved. You tell him that Bean hardly ever touches anything in your bookshop without asking first. And you both agree that since Mr. Kenobi (and no one else in his classroom) have needed emergency haircuts, that Bean’s acting out has calmed down. It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve gone out together—his goodnight kisses leave you burning up for days, but there’s still something in your bones that tells you that you aren’t ready to take it to the next level yet. So you’ve been avoiding him in this respect. And you realize the main reason why he’s asked you to bring coffee to him: it’s so he can ask you out on another date, in person, and before your brain can even fully process the question, your mouth is saying a breathless yes.

“I’d like to thank you for my coffee,” he says lowly, that grumbling sound coming from somewhere lower than his chest.

“It’s really okay,” you say and you feel your hands tremble with anticipation because of the way he’s looking at you and moving closer to you.

His hands find your hips—you’re sure he could grab them with his eyes closed, that his body would just gravitate towards you and know where to touch—and he walks you backwards to his work bench. He cages your body between it and his front. Din dips his face close to yours and you hold your breath, waiting for him to give you a searing kiss. But he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes into your ear, “You better be well rested for this date; I’m not leaving you after dropping you off this time. And I don’t think you’ll want me to, either.” And then he grabs your chin and kisses you fiercely, tilting your head back and opening your mouth for him so he can slide his tongue in, the tip of it running over and underneath yours before he licks at the roof of your mouth. He drops his hands away when he slides his tongue out of your mouth and you bite down on his lower lip, and he moans into your mouth which you answer in time when his fingertips move from resting on the inside of your waistband in the front if your cotton shorts and sneak under the waistband of your now-soaked panties.

This is when Obi-Wan walks in, clearing his throat, and Din pulls away with you with such a laziness ebbing from his hazy arousal, and he shields your body from Obi-Wan so you can pull yourself together.

Obi-Wan’s fingers are in his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and he’s averting his gaze. “Sorry—just dropping off for the tire rotation.”

*~*

  1. _The Smut._



1

Bean’s fifth birthday party is a raucous success: nearly all of his little classmates showed up with their mothers, and even grandmothers. You had a feeling they were there to see Din and Obi-Wan as much as the child. Mothers fawned over Obi-Wan, telling him how good he was with their children and to their children. A lot of them touched at and grabbed at his bare forearms anytime they gave him praise. How couldn’t they? He was walking around in one of his nicest dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and the first two buttons undone and showing his chest. They did the same to Din—you’re sure one even tried to grab his ass at some point, claiming that it was an accident in a cramped kitchen. And how couldn’t she? He was walking around in his too-tight dark-washed jeans, and small t-shirt that barely kept his stomach covered, his biceps straining and showing off, his dark eyes filled with mirth and lined with joyous crinkles. When the guests and the untoward mothers leave, you and Obi-Wan stay to help clean up while Din puts Bean to bed.

“He’s totally unconscious,” Din smiles, pushing his hair back with his hand, and he then comes out to sit in the living room with you and Obi-Wan after grabbing a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, and he thanks you both for helping. You both tell him you wouldn’t miss it for the world, even though you feel utter exhaustion and weariness seep into your bones and muscles the longer you relax into his couch. Wrangling twenty-plus small children for hours took a toll; you have no idea how Obi-Wan does it daily for work. He doesn’t seem as tired.

And you are wiped and move to rest your feet on Obi’s lap, but when you lay down on the couch, your dress pulls way high up on your thighs and both men are staring at it, and then they look at each other and they silently communicate this is what they wanna do

Din is not even hiding how hard he is. He is watching you and Obi-Wan on the couch while Obi-Wan runs his hand up your thigh and creeps his fingers under the band of your panties, and you shift your hips down so he can push under the fabric more. His other hand is holding your leg steady against him and his eyes never leave your face. You feel a flush of embarrassment with his intense gaze and the way he blinks at you, his eyelashes long and gorgeous.

And Din puts his beer on the coffee table and leans back, getting comfortable in the armchair, spreading his legs wide and placing his palm over the bulge in his pants. He’s adjusting himself but not hiding it, and presses his palm into himself. And he’s speaking in that low voice again, and you feel your nipples grow hard under your shirt, under your bra. “Take them off, Mr. Kenobi.”

And Obi-Wan kneels between your legs on the couch and slowly slides your cotton shorts off. He drops them to the floor. The tip of his tongue wets the bottom of his lip and his hair is falling into his eyes and his fingertips stutter around the waistband of your panties and his eyes burn like blue steel from behind the layers of his hair, boring into your gaze and you nod. You lift your hips to help him, and he peels them off in one fluid movement and moment. He sits back on his ankles and looks at Din who curls his finger in a beckoning way, pressing harder into his cock straining against his dark jeans.

Obi-Wan looks dumbly at your panties in his hand, his thumb brushing over the wet spot, and his tongue darting over his bottom lip again nervously. He pushes his hair back with his free hand. Obi-Wan tosses your underwear at Din, who snatches them out of the air and grips them while giving his next instruction. And you realize something: Din Djarin doesn’t mind sharing, as long as he is in charge; Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn’t mind sharing, as long as you’re comfortable with it.

Din commands, “Spread her for us; I wanna see how wet our girl is.”

And you are one step ahead, and open your legs wide, to run your fingers through your folds and spread your slick around, watching them both for reactions. Din is still lounging in his chair, shifting his hips down and slowly unzipping his jeans.

And Obi-Wan leans down and starts kissing your legs: calf, knee, thigh, up and up and—

Din has your damp panties pressed into his nose while watching, and Obi-Wan leans forward and pushes your shirt up to brush your hip with his fingertips before kissing the soft skin there and nuzzling his nose against you. Your fingers fall into his hair and you give his layers an affectionate tug before running your fingers back, combing it from his face. Obi-Wans’s eyelashes flutter shut tickling near your navel where the tip of his nose and lips trace a trail of tenderness before he presses his nose into the soft tuft of hair at your mound. Neither if you hear Din unbutton and then unzip his jeans, but you sigh a haggard sound and arch your back into Obi-Wan’s face when you see Din take his thick cock into his hand with your panties still wrapped around his fingers and starts stroking himself at the moment that Obi-Wan presses a kiss to your slick folds, and then covers you with your mouth. You pull his hair, hard, and a stifled sound dies into your throat and he makes a desperate whining sound muffled by your cunt.

Din’s next command is a curt, sharp, and bolded, “ _Stop_ ,” and he tells you both to start getting undressed. Obi-Wan makes another soft and desperate sound into your folds before giving you a lingering kiss there and, obviously agitated, sits back on his knees again. His eyes are burning aquamarine in Din’s direction and his hair is a wild mess, chest heaving.

And Obi-Wan and Din look at each other, almost as though they’re sizing each other up, and Obi-Wan understands that Din is in charge. And he gives a small nod before he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Din snaps his fingers, “Get up,” he says to you. Obi-Wan stands unsteadily on the floor and offers you his hand, and pulls you up in front of him.

“Do that for him,” Din indicates for you to unbutton Obi-Wan’s shirt—he’s gesturing with your panties still twisted into his hand.

He tells Obi-Wan, “Kiss her...Grab her chin, make her open up for you.”

Obi-Wan’s searching gaze again, while you work his shirt buttons open, aching to see his bare chest again and you nod.

This is the first time you and Obi-Wan have kissed one another with your tongues and an extra spike of excitement shoots down your lower back and into your core to know that Din is watching closely—he’s studying how this must differ from all the ways that he’s claimed your mouth. And while Obi-Wan is holding your chin like Din has told him to, and while you’ve opened for him (like Din has told you to do) and feel Obi-Wan exploring you, he’s not claiming you. Obi-Wan is what Din has told him he knows him to be: a sweet man— a gentleman, through and through. No, Obi-Wan is not claiming you, but instead romancing you—loving you—with his mouth, his tongue, and breathing himself into you just like he’s stealing your own breath away.

Din tells you both it’s time to take this to his bedroom. And when Obi-Wan slowly pulls away from you, you ache at the sight of his flushed neck and cheeks.

And when the three of you walk down the hall and into his bedroom, Din is right behind you and grabs your ass roughly, ushering you faster into the room. His shirt is gone by the time you’re inside, the door locked behind him, and his pants are still unbuttoned and unzipped, and he’s orchestrating where you and Obi-Wan need to go.

“Sit on the bed,” he gruffly tells Obi-Wan, pushing his dark hair from his face. He’s flushed, too, and you’ve never been so excited to see such a stern man become so unraveled. “On the edge, Obi-Wan—at the foot of it.”

Obi-Wan does as he’s told, and pushes his hair back with both hands, waiting politely for the next instruction.

Din grabs your chin and brushes his thumb over your lower lip. “Baby, Daddy needs you to hold onto Obi’s shoulders and bend over, okay?” He places his hands over your shoulders to show you what he means and you nod, trying to kiss his thumb, but he pulls it away and he turns you to face Obi-Wan who is sitting with his palms on his knees and smiling up at you.

“Come here, sweetling,” he says, squeezing at your hips with both hands before you lean into him and your palms resting at his shoulders. You’ve slipped your hands under his shirt, and are grabbing at his bare, flushed skin. Obi-Wan drags his fingertips down your cheek, the side of your neck and on down until he’s at the hemline of your shirt. His eyes flit over your head, and at Din, who nods, and Obi-Wan peels your shirt off as fluidly as when he began undressing you in the living room.

Your shirt falls to the floor, and Obi-Wan presses kisses onto your bare shoulder, as Din stands behind you, one hand on your lower back, pushing you further into Obi-Wan, and his other hand palming your ass until his fingers round over your core and you gasp harshly, gripping onto Obi-Wan while Din sinks two of his fingers into you. Din groans in between your shoulder blades and licks a hot trail up to where the back of your neck meets the back of your shoulder as his fingers pump in and out of you.

“Oh, baby,” Din sighs, “you’re so fucking wet for Daddy and Mr. Kenobi, aren’t you?” He laves at the crook of your neck and shoulder before biting down and you muffle your moan into Obi-Wan’s mouth, and Obi-Wan’s thumb finds your clit and he strokes you in firm circles while Din works his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace. You start pushing your hips back into Din and he chuckles against your skin, “You like that, baby? Does our girl need more?”

“Yes, Daddy. I want it. I want you,” you pant deftly against Obi-Wan’s lips, “and I want Mr. Kenobi.”

And Din coos, “Oh, I’m going to show you what you want, little one; you don’t even know what you want yet.”

You and Obi-Wan moan into each other’s mouths, and your nails dig into his shoulders before you wrap your arms around his neck. His free arm catches you around the small of your back, and he holds you as close as he can get, his arm trapped between your back and Din’s front.

“Baby, Daddy wants you to get in bed with Obi, okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.” And you wince when he pulls his fingers from you.

“Sit with your back against his chest.”

Obi-Wan makes room for you and you do as Din says.

You sit at the edge of the bed and Obi-Wan is behind you with his legs on the outside of yours and kissing and licking your neck, while stroking your chest and pulling at the clasps of your bra until they’re all undone. Din slides the straps over your shoulders before tugging the garment off entirely and tossing it across the room. Obi-Wan’s hands rove from your belly and up and up, his fingers kneading into the soft flesh of your breasts, tugging and pinching at your nipples. Din is kneeling on the floor in front of you both, and he pulls your legs over his shoulders. Obi-Wan’s hands move to your thighs and he holds you open for Din as Din spreads your lips with his thumbs and starts licking you so thoroughly with the flat of his tongue. The tip of his tongue swirls and teases at your entrance before his flat laving brushes all the way up to your clit ending in a wet sucking sound, making you wet, taking all of you into his mouth and sucking hard before letting you go again. And making sure you are soaked for what is to come. You tug at his soft, thick hair when his thumb applies pressure to your opening and he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue over it, running it tongue flat over it, and when your breathing tells him that you’re close, he just stops. And he stands, and he motions for the both of you to lay back.

Obi-Wan goes first and takes you with him, you laying with your back on top of him, and he holds you secure to his chest, with his forearm right across your chest pulling you up his body slightly, and his free hand brushes his fingers over the tuft of hair at your mound until his middle finger finds your clit and he starts stroking you in soft circles. Din still kneels between your joined legs and uses your slick to stroke Obi-Wan’s cock, and pushes his cock up to make it slides through your folds, just holding it in there with the flat of his hand as Obi-Wan thrusts upward.

And you all stay that for a minute, as wetness is just leaking out of you, clenching around nothing and Din pulls Obi-Wan’s cock away from you and takes it in his mouth, to thoroughly lick every drop of you off of it, while Obi painfully clutches you to his chest and frantically alternates between running circles over and around your clit and dipping his fingers into you to gather more of your slick.

Din relinquishes Obi-Wan from his mouth and orchestrates how he wants you to have one another.

Obi-Wan scoots back on the bed and you roll off his back, then climb towards him, gushing over how excited and helpless he looks. You kneel in front of him and push his shirt off his shoulders and he swats it into the floor. You move to kiss his neck, and hum softly over the sight of the freckles on his shoulders, and his hand slides under your bra to cup your bare breast, his thumb flicking over your hard nipple.

“Obi is going to fuck you first, okay, baby?” You hear Din huff from behind you and you hear him pushing his jeans off his body and Obi-Wan watches him strip his shirt off, his abdomen pulling taut with the stretch and he throws his t-shirt across the room. “He’s going to get you nice and wet and open. He’s going to get you ready for Daddy, okay?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes rove over your chest before meeting your eyes again and he pushes himself off the bed, and fumbles with his belt. Din moves over to him, his cock hard and holding it on one hand, squeezing, but not stroking. He stands closely in front of Obi-Wan and presses Obi-Wan’s fingers away from his belt. Din’s fingers move deftly and surely—he is you and Obi-Wan’s anchor in this new, exciting experience—and then he unbuttons Obi-Wan’s jeans, then pulls the zipper down gingerly. Obi-Wan’s fingers reach out for Din, the tips of them brushing over Din’s leaking cockhead, and then they wrap around his shaft. Din groans softly, but his face never breaks concentration, even when he pushes his hips into Obi-Wan’s grasp. Din kisses Obi-Wan softly at the beauty mark under his right eye before pushing Obi-Wan’s jeans and boxer-briefs down in one fell swoop. Obi-Wan steps out of his clothes, and you realize that you’re all finally bare in front of one another. That this is finally happening. And you wonder if this exact moment is what Din was referring to in the bar all those weeks ago about waiting for things to play out.

Din shows you where he wants you on the bed: on your back, with your neck resting at the foot of it, and he guides Obi-Wan to climb on top of you, with his hand on Obi-Wan’s hip. You spread your legs for Obi-Wan and he gently joins you, holding himself over you, his hair falling into his eyes again. His eyes are shining with that anxious nervousness that you remember from the first time you ever met, and you press your fingers into his beard to soothe him, know that’s what he would do. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours, his nose resting next to yours.

Din goes to stand behind you and you reach for his cock and take him in your hand. His head falls back, and he lets out a soft, “ _Fuck_ ,” when you begin stroking him.

Obi-Wan pulls back to look at you when your other hand grabs him and lines him up at your aching slit. You let go, and then splay your fingers into his chest hair. He cups your face with one hand and kisses you sweetly as he pushes his way into you, gingerly at first. The stretch is heated, and the pressure makes you cry out into his mouth, and your hand grips Din that much tighter. Din groans deeply and begins pumping his hips in and out of your grip. Your free hand grabs Obi-Wan’s ass and you pull him closer to you, trying to tell him to push all the way in, and he does, and you moan into each other’s mouth, and a whimper tears from his throat and he buries your face into the crook of your neck. You arch your hips into him, moving in time with his soft pace that hits you so deep, in all the right spots, in _the_ spot, and you feel yourself gushing more warmth around him, coating him, and the snug fit grows more comfortable the wetter you get.

“How does our girl feel, Obi?” Din pants, pushing into you with a quicker pace—so unlike Obi-Wan’s slow, deep strokes.

Obi-Wan can only make a soft grunting sound against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. Your chest is as filled as your core is, and you run your fingers through his hair, and he pulls his face back to burrow into your touch.

“Obi,” you coo softly, “Obi-Wan, kiss me, please,” and he does. Again, and again. His hips meeting yours in time, filling you with all of his cock, his hand on your neck.

“Baby, do you like Obi fucking you so sweetly with his big cock? Are you getting my sheets wet?” Din asks, cradling the back of your head with one hand, and fingers caressing at your bare shoulder with the other. “Because Daddy won’t fuck you this nice.”

“Obi-Wan,” you moan softly, gripping at his hair.

“You’re doing so good, my darling,” he says, fingers running down your throat and in between your breasts. “I’m right here.” He kisses beads of sweat on your forehead, on your neck. And looks down at you with his hair falling into his face again. “My darling girl, so good. You’re taking me so good right now,” his shaking fingertips tracing your lower lip. “I love you, my little one,” and then his lips replace his fingers. He’s breathless with the declaration and murmurs it soft against your mouth again, “I love you, sweetling. I’m right here.”

You kiss him back passionately, pulling him as close as you can, your fingers gripping at his hair, telling him everything with the kiss: the longing; the pining; the fucking yourself senseless during your lunch breaks after his visits most days. And there’s a drop, and the way you cry out: strangled, but loud; desperate, and mewling. Din knows what’s happening.

“Fuck her harder.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, but looking at you, his pupils eating away at his blue irises. “I want to feel her come on me like this.” His thumb moves to your clit and he strokes you surely, his cock hitting you deep and you feel your walls clenching around him and you turn your head when you cry out again, reaching for Din, his cock still in your hand, and guiding him to your mouth to pacify you through the roiling and upheaval happening in your core. Din hisses when you take him into your mouth, his hand supporting your head, pulling you onto him, fucking into you, and your tongue swirling over his cockhead, his length, his girth. He moans, almost helplessly, when you cry out around him as you come over Obi-Wan’s cock, and Obi-Wan takes you down slow. Not stilling in you, not coming in you, but still rocking into you gently when he feels you come undone, and hears how franticly and wetly you’re fucking Din with your mouth.

When Obi-Wan feels your hips move back to the bed, and hears the soft pop of Din pulling out of your mouth, his hips finally slow, and he kisses you deeply, licking into your mouth as he slides out of you. He reaches for Din and they trade places, and Din pulls you into him, laying down, and pulling you on top of him, cradling you to his chest, bonding with you post-orgasm.

“You did so good, baby. You took Daddy’s cock in your mouth so good, Honey.” He strokes your hair, and traces small circles at the small of your back, calming you, stilling you, until your breathing returns to normal. His arms are strong around you, stronger than Obi-Wan, and you whine against Din, tracing your nose up to the crook of his neck and kissing him there, and he ruts against you, his cock still wet from your mouth, and brushing against your thigh, pushing into it.

Din roughly grabs your thighs, and pulls you to straddle his lap. When you’re over him, pressing your palms into his chest to gain purchase, he pushes his cock in between your folds to gather some slick before sinking towards your entrance. He catches you around the small of his back sits up, pressing himself into you, and pushing you onto him and your head falls back and you cry out, “Daddy.”

Din starts running his hands down your back, hitching you closer to him by your ass, fingers digging into you, fucking up into you with great strength, using you but letting you use him and you palm his shoulders and push yourself hard against him, earning a rough cadence of ‘ _that’s right, that’s right,_ ’. He brings his hands around to your front, grabbing both your breasts and sucking on your nipples one at a time, teeth grazing teasingly, while your hands are deep in his hair, pulling hard at the back of it.

Din pushes you backwards, and pushes your thighs open for him, gripping at them tightly before pushing your legs back, your ankles over his shoulders. He grabs your wrists and pins you to the bed before growling in your ear that, “You are _mine._ ” And you are so overwhelmed, because he’s fucking you so good, and you try to tell him that, but you can’t even answer, you can only nod at anything he says. His hips snapping into you, the brutal sounds of skin on skin—he is _claiming_ you, and you will agree with everything he says. Din’s thrusts are turning more erratic and his chest is heaving, and he is very close. He reaches out for Obi-Wan, who has been standing at your side, stroking himself with a firm grip.

“Come here, Obi,” Din manages to pant out, pulling him by his wrist. He pulls your legs back down for the bed and scoots you down in a way to make room for the other man.

And then Obi-Wan climbs up and straddles your stomach, not sitting on it but hovering and is jerking himself off with the intention of coming on your chest, but Din reaches around and grabs him and starts stroking him in time with his thrusts into you. Obi-Wan has his hand back into Din’s hair and his eyes closed, and you are running your hands up Obi-Wan’s thighs and squeezing hard. Din’s thumb finds your clit, and he is painfully deep in you and you are coming hard, and hot, digging your nails into Obi-Wan’s thighs. And then Din comes, and he is biting Obi-Wan where his shoulder meets his neck, and pulling him into his chest, pressing his sweating forehead in between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades, and Obi-Wan comes on your chest, hard, crying out softly, and his strokes taper down, and he watches you with a blissed-out gaze as you collect his come from your chest onto your fingers and lick it off.

Din is the one sturdy enough to bring the washrags to help clean everyone up.

And when you all fall asleep, you are between them; Obi-Wan’s head in the crook of your neck, Din’s on your chest with your arm bent at the elbow and hand tucked into his hair, and your other hand draped on Obi-Wan’s leg, as though apologizing for gripping him too hard. Din’s arm is across your belly, his hand holding onto Obi-Wan’s forearm. And Obi-Wan’s arm across your belly and chest, hand cupping your breast.

2

And then it’s the morning. Both men are still asleep: Obi-Wan has made himself small and has tucked himself into the warmth of Din’s back, his forehead pressed in between his shoulder blades. You sneak out to the kitchen, amazed that you’re awake with the sunrise, and excited to make the coffee for them.

And the child comes out, clad in his pajamas, and rubbing his eyes. He just tugs on your pant leg (you’re wearing Din’s sweatpants) and Bean blinks his brilliant green eyes up at you sleepily, still yawning, “Papa always makes pancake hotdogs on Saturdays. Can we have pancake hotdogs for breffess?” You know he’s talking about those breakfast corndogs with sausage in them. You smile down at him, dying on the inside, wanting to tell him that yes: he could have literally anything in the world that he wants. You hoist him up and sit him on the kitchen counter while you rummage for ingredients. He kicks his little feet to and fro, and makes a pleased sound when he sees his father enter the kitchen, dark hair sleep-tousled, and bare-chested, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants banded at the ankle.

“Honey is making pancake hotdogs,” he tells his dad, his arms outstretched, hands grabbing at the air, indicating he wanted to be held: that he wants his father to give him ‘uppies’, which standing-up hugs.

Din comes over and gives the child what he wants. “Is that right, my boy?”

“Yes, but she’s making them the correct way,” Bean says matter-of-factly, pointing at you mixing pancake batter and the sausages sizzling on the skillet. “She says you need to quit it with the frozen food.”

You whip around, and touch a dollop of batter onto Bean’s nose (which he squeals his delight over) and admonish him in a playful way, “I did _not_ say that.”

Din tears off a paper towel from the nearby roll with one hand and wipes Bean’s nose clean. “I don’t believe you.”

“Did Mr. Nobie come over for pancake hotdogs, too?” Bean asks loudly, waving at Obi-Wan standing with his arms crossed and leaning against the far wall, watching the three of you. He’s a bit more put together than Din, wearing the clothes he arrived in last night.

“As a matter of fact, I did indeed.” Obi-Wan smiles at the child, who squawks in delight.

Obi-Wan, seeing that you and Din have your hands full, comes into the kitchen and measure out three coffee cups.

Bean stage whispers, “Papa, do Honey and Mr. Nobie live with us now?”

Din sputters on his coffee, “No, darling. But they’re welcome anytime. Separately, or together.”

*~*

_END._

  
  
  



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